I Can't Carry On
by ElilybethGrimmPitch
Summary: 'The poet Melissa Broder once said: What idiot called it 'depression' and not 'there are bats living in my chest and they take up a lot of room, P.S. I see a shadow?" Baz is darker. Simon is simpler. Essentially CARRY ON with added lumps of depression, desperation and damage. Angst heavy, some fluff.
1. Chapter 1

**BAZ.**

The poet Melissa Broder once said: 'What idiot called it "depression" and not "there are bats living in my chest and they take up a lot of room, P.S. I see a shadow"?'

Melissa Broder had no idea what she was talking about. There are no bats living in my chest.

I am the bat. My chest is empty and bleeding, and there is nothing BUT shadows.

 **SIMON.**

He tries angry. Sad. Happy. Worried. Contemplative. Missing. Wanted.

But I can only see tired. So tired.

Baz thinks I don't notice when he stares at himself in the mirror before we turn into bed (contrary to popular belief, Vampires do have reflections). At first, I figured it was because he was vain. Lord knows everyone else seems to find him handsome. (And if I spend too long looking at Baz, looking at himself, it's because I'm trying to unsee it. The handsome. Because seeing it really is doing me no good).

Now though, I know it's not that. Baz just looks…. empty. When he thinks noone else is looking at him. Like he usually wears a mask and forgot to put one on. The masks I just saw him run through, for the millionth time.

I've tried asking him about it, about why he acts like the light's gone out when he's alone, but every time I try, the words get stuck. They don't even make it up to my throat.

 **BAZ.**

Snow's throat is looking particularly… inviting tonight. I purposely turn over so I'm lying facing away from him. I've never bit him. Would never bite him. I'd never bite anyone. But Crowley, that doesn't stop me wanting to. Needing to. The only damn thing I seem to feel these days is want, and need. Basic human emotion.

Except I'm not, am I? Human. I'm a monster. Reduced to base desires, I want things until I feel sort of sick about them. I want enough for two normal people, at least.

I want Snow. In that way, in other ways, in any way. Every way. I want Snow, and he just lies there, there with his stupid, creamy, exposed neck bathed in the moonlight; sleeping, untroubled. I could destroy him. I need to destroy him.

I'll never hurt him.

 **SIMON.**

Baz is gone when I wake up. If I hadn't seen him last night, I'd have assumed he'd disappeared. Again. He does that sometimes. I used to be curious, used to follow him all over the school. I was sure he was plotting. Always plotting. My demise, world dominance, his own ascension to the throne of Pitch. Back then, I figured my obsession with him was born from hatred, from fear, from anger. A few years in, I began to realise. A year or so after that, I knew. The only fear and anger I had was for myself. Why I felt the way I did about him. Why it had to be him. Why it even had to be a him. I'd spent 3 years with Agatha, and those three years were fine. More than fine. I thought she was beautiful. We kissed, for Crowley's sake.

But you didn't need to, said a small voice. You weren't - consumed - with her, the way you are with him. Agatha didn't get under your skin the way Baz does. Agatha doesn't make it hard to breathe when you stand too close to her. Agatha never once made you so frustrated, you wanted to grab her by the hips and slam her into a wall -

I'd never hurt him though. Baz. I'd never hurt him, because he looks like he carries enough pain to last him the rest of his life. Which incidentally, may well be a pretty long time. If I could take it away, if I could do that for him, then, fuck, I would. Of course I would. In a heartbeat. I'd do anything for him. I'd cross every line for him.

I love him.


	2. Chapter 2

**BAZ.**

I came to breakfast early, before anyone else was up. On the nights when I can't sleep, I always seem to think about when I was a kid. Before all _this_ really took hold. I can't really remember ' _before this_ ', but I know enough to know I was there. More alive than now, at least. It's as though I'm watching a TV screen of myself. When I was a kid, I used to have no trouble sleeping - I used to wake up every morning grinning; I'd crash out of bed and explore the incredible maze that was our house, there was always something interesting to find (even if I wasn't supposed to find it). I'd run in the garden and climb the forest and play by the lake, and I'd be stupidly, naively happy. I thought I was going to be OK, then. I thought I was controlling it. Everyone did.

Now, I wake up every morning (if I've ever even slept) and remind myself that control is not only an illusion, but a necessary illusion. I have to be in control, even if I think the effort it takes will kill me. I have to be in control, even though every bit of me, body and brain and whatever gaping hole was left when my soul was sucked out, all of that, has never felt _less_ in control.

I used to count the mice I saw in the grass. Now I count my breaths, praying that if I get to 100 I won't have a panic attack. Praying that my own hands haven't tried to strangle me whilst I slept. Or worse - that I haven't tried to hurt Simon.

Aleister On High, if Snow knew he was my first thought in the morning and my last thought at night. If he knew I was trying so hard to hold on, for him.

If he knew, he'd be disgusted.

And I couldn't bear it.

 **SIMON**

Baz hasn't disappeared. He's sat in Politickal Science after dinner, looking like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. And holding it up, prettily. Stupid bastard, he never looks bad, even when he's obviously nearly falling apart at the seams. He has one of those bodies that just go on forever, all pale and lithe and pointy limbs. His face would be handsome in a hurricane, and his eyes - they're fathoms deep. He gets this look, sometimes, like he wants to burn everything he sees. He uses it on me, a lot. Although, occasionally, his expression changes into something else - a flash of something, so fleeting I can't work it out. Almost as if it was accidental. I make sure my own face gives nothing away, because the last thing I want - _the last thing I need_ \- is for Baz to know how I feel about him. Where he is closed, I'm open, and it would take milliseconds for him see the truth etched all over my face.

The truth would disgust him.

And even if it didn't - even if, if we play along with some crazy fantasy of mine, the truth didn't make him want to attack me on the spot just to get rid of me - then what could happen anyway? He's _Basilton Grimm-Pitch_ , for Crowleys sake. He's probably the heir to a small country and has had an arranged marriage with a Duchess since he was eight years old. What do I have to offer? What I am heir to, the Mage? That's right, Simon, excellent. You're the next of kin to his family's sworn enemy. They'll welcome you with open arms.

Whatever, none of it matters. Not logic, not common sense, not sheer bloody force of will. Regardless of the millions of reasons why it couldn't work, shouldn't work, _wouldn't_ work - the only open arms I can think of, time and time again, are my roommates. My fantastic, tragic, fucked up, beautiful roommate. Who right now, is actually crossing the room towards towards me - _what, whoah, why is everyone standing up, what have I missed_ \- and holding a small piece of paper in his hand, looking simultaneously bored and slightly terrifying.

''You're my lab partner, Snow. Lucky you''.

What. _What lab partner_? Quickly assessing the situation, I gather that Professor Valium must have assigned us our project for the term, and also assigned us our partners. _So_ _of course_ _ **he's**_ _my partner_.

Fuck, this is the greatest thing that's ever happened.

Fuck, this is the worst thing that's ever happened.


End file.
